


Of Pretenses and Promises

by avid75



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clairedevil be Clairedevil what can you do?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, F/M, Gun Violence, Mild Blood, Mild Smut, Moderate Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avid75/pseuds/avid75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As suddenly as it began, Matt Murdock and Claire Temple's intimate relationship hit the pause button. There's some not-insignificant baggage to unpack there, but it's also easy to overthink things when your first sex precludes your first date...</p><p>Prequel to "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4131375">Shelter From the Storm (Refugio de la Tormenta)</a>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't intend to continue the same storyline as an earlier fic which is basically pure PWP! But I liked the idea of exploring how Matt and Claire got to that comfort level after what I'd implied was a sudden, surprising coupling driven by instinct and emotion. This happens earlier than "Shelter From the Storm", but after they hook up; I'll probably write _that_ fic at some point, too. ;) Just to be a completeist. 
> 
> (Expecting this to be about three chapters, maybe four. We'll see...)

It was a beautiful, bright full moon. The kind of moon with such intense, silvery-blue light that on a low-lit side street in New York City, when it hits your face it's nearly as blinding as the rays of the sun. Melvin Potter strode down 38th Street toward the river with the moon in his face from high up in the sky, and he smiled like a kid on a summer Saturday. 

One might almost say Potter had a spring in his step, thought the man in the shadows, crouching below a water tower on a rooftop down at the street corner. Listening intently to the rhythm of the footfalls that approached his location, only a couple of floors above Potter's workshop. That is, if they didn't know Potter very well; he was rarely cheerful, let alone had a spring in his step. Interesting. 

As Potter drew closer, the man in the shadows stood to his feet; his head, covered in a black mask, cocked slightly toward the ledge. Through the ambient scents of Hell's Kitchen at midnight - car exhaust, garbage, subway fumes, spicy food, the first of tomorrow morning's bread hitting the ovens, the constant faint undernote of nearby sea water - Potter's after shave suddenly hit. English Leather. Old school. 

Oh shit. Melvin had a _date_. The man in black tipped his head back and chuckled softly to himself.

A matter of minutes later, Potter entered his workshop whistling. He'd taken off his sport coat, hung it on the coat rack and dropped his keys into the ashtray marked "Melvin's Butts" (didn't smoke, he just thought it was hilarious), when his eyes caught the lamp that had been switched on next to his work bench. He strode over to investigate; under its flourescent beam were a small but neat stack of 100 dollar bills and a cold six-pack of Yoo-hoo.

"Nice to catch you in such a good mood," the voice from across the room opined; Potter only jumped slightly. The man in black stepped toward him, listening to his heartbeat ratchet up only a tick or two at the surprise; he knew who the care package was probably from. 

"Heh, yeaaaah," Potter replied; the shuffle of his feet made an "aw, shucks" kind of a rhythm. "I, uh... I took B..bb..Betsy out for burgers and a movie." (He was so happy he almost couldn't say her name.) "We saw that, that one with the cop and the dog, you know? Gosh, it was real funny. She laughed a lot! I... I really like her laugh." 

Matt Murdock folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the work bench. "You've been seeing more of Betsy." Potter chortled, followed by the skin on skin sound that indicated him rubbing one hand self-consciously over his bald head.

"She's so nice to me. I kinda never really took her out before tonight, though, you know? I was kinda scared to even, like I didn't know if maybe she wouldn't wanna spend all that time with me? Just that one time she let me kiss her goodnight before... just that one time." 

"She let you kiss her goodnight again?"

Potter's heart started to race. "Yeaaaaah." He giggle-snorted. If only Hell's Kitchen knew that the man who made Daredevil's suit of armor was basically an overgrown human puppy.

"Congratulations," Matt said. "Not to change the subject too abruptly, but I'm hoping you have the repairs done."

"Oh heck yeah, finished this morning," Potter replied, cracking open a Yoo-hoo and downing half of one in one swig. Matt could hear him stride across the room to retrieve the suit of armor; when he returned, draping it across the work bench with a sturdy yet light thud, Matt took off his glove and ran his fingers over the chest plate where two days ago, a Ukranian thug who reeked of peppered vodka and sweat had bludgeoned him with a crowbar. Thank God he was the last of the crew of a burgeoning burglary ring, most of whom Matt had already disarmed and dispatched. And he didn't have a gun on him. He did manage to tear out two rivets from the suit, rip the base layer and leave one hell of a bruise on him underneath.

"Outstanding work, as always. Thank you, Melvin," Matt nodded. He could perceive Potter rocking back on his heels, pridefully. And with good reason. The empty Yoo-hoo bottle hit the work bench and the sound of currency being flipped at the corner took its place.

"Geez, though Mr. Daredevil, I mean... you ain't gotta pay me this much, you know? This is like," Potter paused, thinking... "Way, _way_ more than usual."

"I had a good day, too," Matt responded. "And it's not just for the repair. I need you to make me another suit."

"A whole other suit?"

"Yes, I realized I can't be stuck without the suit if something happens where I need you to do repairs. I need a spare."

"Ohhh... oh, yeah. Yeah, that's smart huh. Sure, no problem," Melvin assured him, starting in on Yoo-hoo #2.

"And feel free to improvise," Matt added. "If you think of anything to add or tweak, things that will improve it, by all means. I trust your judgment, Melvin."

"Yeah, I can do that. Thank you, I can do that, no problem." Potter took a step forward and a deep breath. "You... you're my friend."

Matt smirked. "Yes, I like to think so"; he held out his hand to shake Potter's. Gathering the armor into the black duffel bag he'd brought with him, he listened to the sounds of money being placed into a billfold, of remaining bottles being placed in a fridge. He thought the better of asking earlier, but he couldn't stop thinking of that mad sound of Melvin's heart pounding when he recalled Betsy's kiss.

What did he have to lose?

"Hey.. one more question."

"Yeah?" Potter asked.

He opened the levered window enough for him to crawl out onto the fire escape, tossing the duffel before him. "When you decided to ask Betsy out... how'd you get over your nerves?"

"Huh. I dunno, I mean... I woke up the other day thinkin', today I'm gonna ask Betsy cause thinkin' about 'what if she says yes' or 'what if she says no' over and over again is kinda dumb, you know?"

Matt huffed. "Yeah... yeah, I think I know just what you mean."

Potter added: "She did kiss me, too, and I mean if I like somebody enough to kiss 'em, I figure that's probably enough to watch a movie with 'em too, you know?"

The man in black stepped onto the fire escape, his secret identity over one shoulder. "Sound logic. Goodnight, Melvin." And with a vault and a clean swoop, he vanished over the railing.

\--- 

Matt Murdock didn't sleep particularly well that night.

Having just won a case he was quite proud of in Nelson & Murdock's brief but increasingly storied history, he had every reason to sleep pretty soundly. As for his nighttime preoccupation, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen just laid claim to a quiet night in the neighborhood and a freshly repaired suit with which to exact justice next time someone decided to kick up some dust, so there was that going for him, too.

Neither helped. Matt nodded off here and there, pulling his bedclothes over his shoulders thinking he was chilled... throwing them off and scratching his chest when suddenly he felt too hot. There was a cat in heat a block away and one of the four grad students who just moved in two floors down had fallen asleep with the TV on again, but Matt could only think of the hammering of Melvin's heartbeat as he recalled one woman's kiss. He remembered all too vividly the last time his own heart had raced like that.

Matt couldn't stop thinking about Claire Temple.

It was maybe just a little over a month ago? (Bullshit. It was exactly thirty-eight days ago, he had been counting.) The sudden resurgence of the Westies into Hell's Kitchen - small in numbers, large in their capacity for brutality and fearmongering - was an increasing cause for alarm, both for the police and by extension the DEA, who had been paying visits to their old friend Brett Mahoney, who had recently made detective. Amidst various ongoing shakedowns, a distraught Indian couple who ran the restaurant on the corner of 44th and 10th had come to Nelson & Murdock a few months back pleading for help. They'd been set up to fail a health department inspection, they were certain of it. Their storefront was quite valuable. Someone wanted them out.

He hadn't expected to see Claire that night. 

It was supposed to be a pretty simple reconnaissance visit; follow the kid they suspected as the "trigger" man, find out who he was meeting with. When he tailed him to an auto detailing shop on 12th Ave, listening intently as he conversed with what sounded like a fairly old man with some kind of speech impediment (harelip?); Matt took mental notes of the location and of the older man's vocal patterns, and slight Irish lilt. He hadn't accounted for the sudden appearance of another man whose heavy footfalls were pounding up the stairs to the roof access behind him; they tustled but the larger man succeeded in throwing him off the roof into a dumpster below. There wasn't much trash in there to soften the blow, either; his head crashed through a wooden packing crate, helmet splintering it to pieces. It took Matt a couple of moments to get to his feet, at which point the larger, younger man had come downstairs and was hauling him out of the garbage to finish the job. 

The kid cowered in the back doorway of the garage as the old man stood nearby, smoking a strong, unfiltered cigarette while his companion pummeled Matt in the stomach, then prepared to deliver a right hook until Matt swept his leg, taking him down. He went down hard, yowling in pain (Matt had aimed for the knee, sounded like he landed on target); The billy clubs came out, and Daredevil made quick work of his opponent... then the old man spoke. 

"Damn shame," he grumbled. "Damn shame it had to come to this."

The metallic tang of blood from his split lip ran over Matt's teeth. "Get out of here, kid," he urged, though it appeared the teen was still frozen in place with fear. He turned back to the codger. "You're going to tell me what I want to know," he growled. "Believe me, I'm not afraid to break an old man's arm."

"Aye, I believe you," said the man, stubbing out his cigarette with a loud grind of his boot on the cracked pavement. "That's your problem, sonny. You'll do that... but you won't do this." 

Matt didn't see it coming, but he should have. By the time he'd rushed the old man, tackled him into the dumpster with a clanging crash, it was too late; a gunshot rang out. The kid took a bullet right between the eyes. Never knew what hit him. The old man had been knocked out cold, but he was alive. Between the crash and the gunshot, someone would call the police pretty quick; Matt was hurtling across rooftops five blocks away by the time the first squad car was on the scene. 

The Daredevil had identified the kid, who was now their liability. He was scared. He might talk. _He should have fucking seen that coming._

It was a long time since he had been that rattled, so he didn't know how much of it was instinct or simply the comfort of a potential sympathetic ear, but he stopped, slumped down on one roof and pulled out his burner phone. Shaking, he called her; she'd asked him where he was hurt, and he could only insistently answer with "Please Claire, I need to see you." 

She'd only recently moved and for a split second he'd forgotten which fire escape was hers; thankfully her window was open and he traced her scent. She'd very recently put on that lotion (cocoa butter, almond oil, calendula, cherry bark...) that was usually much fainter on her skin, but made the blood rush to his head (and other places) and his mind raced. He shouldn't be here. He had to be here. She might not want him here.

She let him in. When he admitted he didn't need stitching up, she took a step back. He kept talking. The helmet came off. He told her everything. He slumped onto the sofa, sobbing. She sat on the coffee table. She removed the knuckle armor, and his gloves. She held his hands, her fingers stroking his palms soothingly. 

"I couldn't save him... I couldn't save him..."

Claire had set the boundaries. Claire never failed him when he needed her help. Lately, he'd been needing her help less and less. He never needed Claire like he needed her tonight. But Claire set the boundaries...

"Come here," she breathed.

If you'd stopped him to ask after he hung up the phone, Matt would have supposed he'd hoped Claire might hold him tight, tell him to back off acting like a damn savior and remember he's only one man. To feel her warmth, hear her voice, let her knock him down a peg or two while at the same time providing a soft safety net to catch him. That was enough.

He hadn't dared hope for her to rake her fingers through his hair and climb onto his lap. To pin him back against the cushions. Trace the contours of his lips with her thumb. Let him slip one hand up the back of her loose tank top (Jesus, she wasn't wearing a bra), and the other over her silken thigh. 

"Claire, are you sure?"

Somewhere between "you" and "sure," she sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, and he had his answer. Her kisses were like water in a desert, he couldn't get enough, and Matt's synapses were firing so fast (so sweet so warm so soft Jesus so soft Claire, please Claire, need you want you please please...) His tongue and teeth were upon her bare shoulder before he realized he'd repeated himself.

"Claire, are you sure?"

She answered by sucking on his throat, just over his pulse, and scrabbling at the armor at his shoulder with her fingers.

"I don't know how to get the rest of this damn thing off."

\---

That was the first time. It was also the last time he'd seen Claire. Thirty-eight days ago. With Mahoney and his new partner, Detective Serrano's help, they'd uncovered the evidence they needed to prove that the Chawla family's restaurant had been targeted, and had secured the restoration of their health department status and the lease. (He never told Mahoney he was there when the kid was killed; managed to keep that from Foggy too, for now. He never told anyone but Claire.)

With so much on his plate, it was plenty to keep him preoccupied though he'd be lying if he didn't admit to thinking about the perfection of that night every day since. How Claire was slow and tender, giving and trusting, yielding and delicious when he needed exactly that. (At no moment did he take advantage of her sudden change of heart; every step of the way, he let her lead.) The next morning, before her morning shift she climbed onto him and suddenly it was rough and athletic, as explicitly carnal as any sex he'd ever had in his life, and he made damn sure he made her scream. (In Spanish, no less. _Preciosa._ )

Between the circumstances that preceded it and the entire rulebook that their relationship was predicated upon having been tossed out the window so suddenly, Matt wasn't so sure even now that he knew how to reach out to Claire to move forward with... whatever this was. There had been a long, loving kiss goodbye, but no explicit promise of more. The Chawla's case made the papers, so probably she knew he'd been really busy? Maybe? Claire never did anything unless she damn well wanted to - including helping Matt prolong the life of the Russian scumbag who'd had her kidnapped and beaten, so she'd been willing to go to some pretty extreme lengths to help him - and he was pretty confident that night wasn't expressly about soothing his pain with a pity fuck. It had been every bit as necessary for her as it was for him.

So why was he second-guessing himself so much these days that he was asking _Melvin Potter_ for relationship advice?

Matt pressed his alarm clock's center button. "5:37 a.m." the digital voice chirped. He made a decision.

The floor was chilly under his bare feet as he threw his legs off the side of the bed. Right about now, Claire would either be getting ready for a morning shift, or coming in from a graveyard shift with her head about to hit the pillow.

This... might...go... pretty well? Or very badly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrrgh, told you I'd end up dragging this out! To be honest, I kind of let how I was going to infuse subsequent chapters with overarching plot points hold me back from finishing this one. Feels a little less directionless now. (I know how it ends, truly. ;) )

_"Take care of yourself."_

In the past month and change, Claire Temple's life had been mostly uneventful, in as much as an emergency room nurse's existence can be eventful above and beyond the carnival of disaster that comprises the basic workload. Her Aunt Isabel came up to visit from Miami, providing a week and a half heavy on family face time, copious amounts of food and speculation about her work and personal life which was freely tossed about as though she weren't right there in the room. She'd eventually begun winding down the slow unpacking in her new place, she took a weekend to finish painting her bedroom a subtle shade of spring green and decorate as though she might get to spend more than 10 minutes awake in there every day. She'd also, somewhere toward the end of a very long double-shift on a batshit Friday night, begun to seriously consider the constant stream of encouragement from Esther, the head nurse at the ER, about getting off her ass and taking the NCLEX-RN exam. She was already pulling extra weight, she might as well make another ten to fifteen grand a year for this insanity.

And _twice_ , mind you, she'd been talked around into being set up with some very "nice" men — the handiwork of her new neighbor Mrs. Kaminski and Nadia, the new EMT at work, respectively. Mrs. Kaminski's nephew, George, was a very sweet guy, a fifth grade teacher over at P.S. 35; they had a lovely round of tapas and drinks, but at the end of the evening there really were no sparks to speak of. Nadia's pitch was her partner, Travis, who had been in Claire's periphery for well over a year now (virtually every straight woman and gay man who worked at the hospital would probably admit to having checked him out on the sly once or twice), so at least she could admit to having her interest piqued going into that date. And he was funny, and they could certainly share some hilarious and heart-rending stories with each other over the course of a long dim sum brunch down in Chinatown. Dammit, he was gorgeous, too; rangy but strongly built, deep cocoa skin, cheekbones you could cut glass with. She knew she'd be in for an earful from a few different people on Monday, but knew in her gut that this wasn't what she wanted, either. She had no stomach for pretense, for preening and courtship. She'd never been good at small talk...

(...Which is why she'd been set back on her heels in the first place with how easily she'd found it to shoot the shit with him while she stitched up his shoulder, his hand supporting her arm as she worked. His fingers stroked the inside of her elbow and she never even flinched; it felt incomprehensibly _right_...)

"Take care of yourself," was the last thing she'd said to Matt Murdock when she left him to go to work after... well, the polite way to put it would probably be she'd tipped him into her bed. And while that might sound flippant or insubstantial for a parting phrase, context is _everything_. It wasn't the same melancholy "see you 'round" vibe as the time she'd last walked out of his apartment: Drawing the line at providing her services to Daredevil's secret support network, theoretically ending the possibility of them ever moving past a highly-regarded friendship. (So much for _that_ theory.) This was Claire imploring Matt as she cradled his face, her fingertips dandling over the impossibly soft little whorls of hair behind his ear. Letting him press his bare chest firmly up against her fully-clothed, morning-commute-ready body, and melting into another kiss. Because who knew when she'd have him in her bed again, but she was counting on this not to be the last time. _Because Jesus Christ, Matt, I don't know what I'm going to do if you don't come back to me in one piece..._

The last thing Claire wanted to hear, on what had become an unexpected gift of a Tuesday morning when she could sleep in, was her phone ringing. She rolled onto her back, steeling herself for the possibility that it might be work asking if she could come in anyway because they were swamped.

Once she picked up her phone and looked at the number, she didn't know whether to be relieved or simply incredulous. She _knew_ he would call. Once things had settled down, once he had some degree of closure, of wrongs righted that might make whatever happened in the past that he couldn't go back and do differently at least mean something... he'd be on her phone. Still, he sure knew how to pick his moment. _I really ought to program a different ring tone for him, save myself a lot of trouble..._

"I'm not going to ask if you're hurt," Claire picked up, "because it's the ass-crack of dawn and you don't work this late." She stretched langorously, arching her back and curling her toes.

There was a pause. "Dammit. I woke you up," Matt replied. He sounded legitimately crestfallen.

"Nooooo. Well, _yeah_ ," she said. "It's okay, I can talk as long as I don't have to get out of bed. Switched shifts with a co-worker, her kid's dance recital is tonight."

Another pregnant pause.

"Oh." _Don't say everything you need to say all at once, Murdock._ "I figured you would either be going to work or going to sleep."

Claire rubbed the bridge of her nose with thumb and index finger and shook her head. "So in other words, the ideal time to call me after we haven't spoken in over a month?"

Matt stammered. "No, it's not like... this was a mistake..."

"Matt, _stop_." Claire lifted herself up into a sitting position, pulling her knees up to her chest. "Not a mistake. I'm not upset. I mean, I'm not going to lie, I missed you. I kept on living my life like I may or may not hear from you, that's not going to change. But what happened that night... I instigated that, and I feel like we... like we both needed a little time to process it."

"Been a bit more than a little time, though, don't you think?" His tone wasn't accusatory, it was... apologetic. Claire pursed her lips. Here she was, for weeks, holding back with a degree of trepidation and a little discomfort over the fact that, of all nights she could choose to consummate their relationship (something she had expressly told him was off the table not long ago), she picked the one where he was in pieces over his actions, however indirectly, leading to a sixteen year old kid's death. A sixteen year old, mind you, who was being paid by Irish gangsters to deliver groceries to an Indian restaurant and surreptitiously drop rat shit in the kitchen in order to ruin their business and poach their storefront. But to Matt's eyes, that kid wasn't the problem. He was a pawn; he could be saved.

"I guess I didn't think it was my place to say how much time _you_ needed." Satisfied that he wasn't going to hang up, she sank back down into the pillows. "What I did was... impulsive. You were in a really vulnerable place, and...I figured once you'd had some time to think, maybe you felt like I was taking advantage of that..."

"Claire, I didn't...," Matt interrupted. "I never would."

She exhaled. "Thank you. Still, I realized later I definitely could have talked to you more about it. Given you context, I mean. I was in a pretty bad place that night, too. I got reprimanded for raising my voice to our chief attending that day for belittling me about a call that I made. Some old racist bastard spat in my face and called me a black bitch when I tried to get a blood sample. I saw a woman smack her child for crying because she had an ear infection and was in awful pain, but all the woman cared about was how loud this kid was. There was more, that's just the highlights. I... I guess I didn't want to quantify what you went through that night, which was horrifying..."

"It's okay, really... I see what you're getting at." Matt paused for a moment as a tea kettle went off in the background, silenced it then continued. "And I'm sorry, Claire."

 _He's always apologizing._ So Catholic; if her mother ever met Matt, she'd probably start sending her bridal magazines. "For what?"

"That you went through all that."

"Ugh, E.R.'s a shit show every day. This was just a... concentrated pile of shit."

Matt sighed. "All the same. And obviously I'd be lying if I said it wasn't what I wanted for a long time, but I just went with it in that moment because... I _didn't_ feel like I was being manipulated. I felt safe, and I really needed safe that night. You made me feel _welcome_."

Claire turned onto her side, a self-satisfied warmth spreading from the pit of her stomach through to every extremity. The sunrise began to fade in, soft and pink, around the edges of her bamboo blinds.  
  
"How'd I do that?"

"You want me to describe it to you? Right now?" Now he was blushing. She'd bet money on it. And as much as she really wouldn't mind listening to his voice describing the way she'd taken his hand and placed it where he could feel how wet she was - true, she supposed that was pretty welcoming - or any other juicy details, she backed down a little.

"Hmm. Well, I don't like to toot my own horn but I felt pretty confident you'd call eventually."

Now she perceived a smile seeping through in his (a little rough, not enough sleep, sexy as hell) voice. "Oh you were, huh?"

"Mm-hmm. That thing we did with my ankles around your neck was a pretty compelling argument, counsellor." Claire wondered if Matt could pick up on the faintest shiver she couldn't quite contain.

Sounded like Matt swallowed a sip of whatever tea he was drinking and spluttered a little. "Yeah, um... that was memorable."

She could have way too much fun with him now, he'd opened up a Pandora's box. "How do you keep your arms and elbows that rigid for that long, anyway? That lasted forever." He didn't speak. (Was he grinning? blushing? that nervous lip-licking thing he does?)

"Discipline," Matt finally answered.

Under the duvet, Claire bunched the hemline of her pajama top up in her fist; "Well, that _is_ something you know a fair share about."

"Hey, Claire?"

"Yep?"

His voice was so open now, so completely exposed. "I've missed you, too."

It was verging on painful that he wasn't here with her, in bed, right this minute.

" _Good_ ," Claire answered, and Matt's voice rumbled with soft laughter on the other end of the line.

"I hope... that night was everything you needed it to be, too."

" _You_ are everything I needed," Claire breathed. Almost a whisper. Her eyes fluttered closed, remembering his hard, flushed body in just his underwear, pinning her to the back of her front door, kissing her so soft and deep and sneaking fingers up under her scrubs as she protested she'd be late for work...

"Needed?" Matt asked. "Past tense?"

"No. Not past tense."

"When you say you kept on living your life..."

"They didn't work out," she blurted. "I mean, if we're being honest? I... I hate dating, it's not for me. I prefer..." She winced, falling back on their famous last words. "Whatever this is."

Another long, aching pause.

"I've thought about you _every single day_." The last guard came down. Matt was in confessional mode, and as much as his words meant to her Claire wasn't sure she wanted him to empty his heart out to her over the phone. A little jibe might right the careening ship...

"You sure you weren't just cursing me for not having anything for you to change into, so you didn't have to get home in the suit in broad daylight?"

"It wasn't broad daylight!" he protested, "it was... well, you tell me, go look out the window, it was around this time right? What's it look like?" Claire was well aware of what time it was, but she couldn't help but recall the slightly mortified look on his face when she assured him, no, she really didn't have a shirt bigger than a women's large. He had been ready to settle for her teal yoga pants...

"Live and learn," Claire chortled, turning down the covers and contemplating a long, hot bath. Well shit, now she _really_ hated that he wasn't here. Imagine that. Matt in the bath, lathering her back. Matt all _soapy_...

"When can I see you again?" he asked. _Was he a mindreader now, too?!_

"Funny you should ask," she answered, walking around the bed to the window to roll the blinds up about halfway; in the dim light, she scanned the floor for her fleece moccasins. "Since I swapped, I don't have to be back at the hospital until 5:30 tonight. I mean... if you wanted to come over now..." Claire landed somewhere in between startled and aroused by the long groan that unfurled on the other end of the line.

"You're killing me, Temple." His tea must be cooling off, he took a long gulp then continued; "Karen booked us for four consults between 9am and lunch. I _have_ to go in to the office today."

In silence in her bathroom, Claire balled up her fist and scrunched up her face in tandem. "You're telling me that guy I saw talking about civic pride and neighbors looking out for each other on the news yesterday can't even afford to take a day off to rest on his laurels?"

"Yeah, that's the funny thing about being on the news after you win a big case," Matt replied. "It tends to make the phone start ringing. How'd I look, by the way?"

Claire opened her medicine cabinet, retrieving a bottle of cammomile & vetivert bath oil. "Handsome as hell. And I suppose there are worse problems to have."

"Honestly, right now I can't think of a worse problem than being unavailable to you."

"Smooth..." She hung her bathrobe on the hook behind the door and leaned back against it; any further action toward getting into the tub was going to require doing things that felt at best patently unfair to him. "So what's my next best option?"

"When do you have a night off? Name it, I'll be there."

"No, I've got a better idea," Claire opined, "You stay home. I'll come to you. I have Thursday and Friday off, so Thursday night, and no plans. This isn't a date, this is... _spending time together_."

His initial silence bespoke uncertainty, but he sounded game enough.

"Should I... buy something to make dinner? Or, I mean... you know, anything you want from Star of Mumbai, it's on the house and they deliver."

Claire shook her head. "Yeah, I'll bet it is."

"You snicker now, but I'm telling you their lamb pasanda is _outrageous_..."

"NO plans, Matt," She took a deep breath, her stomach fluttering at the thought of ascending those stairs toward his door again. "Let's just see what we feel like. Thursday, I'll be there around 7:30."

"Okay," he agreed. "It's... _not_ a date."

"Bye, Matt," she sighed. It came out far sultrier than she intended. _Whoops?_

"Bye, Claire." _Pure sex._

**click**

Her first thought as she cranked on the hot water tap in the tub was that after five or so weeks, another 72 hours felt a little like an eternity.

Claire's second thought was "What am I going to wear?" followed by " _Dumb_. Way to break your own rule about it not being a date inside of a minute."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah, long delay, I was away. And the first half of this chapter came easy; I debated what the second half should be for a while. But it's a long one, and nothing explicit but some highly charged kissytimes. ;) (Next chapter... things might not stay rated M....) 
> 
> Bess Mahoney is name dropped, because *love*. Also, Marvel nerds will spot an easter egg from comics (which I'm repurposing, in the style of the show...)

Matt's mood was seriously elevated after hanging up the phone; he finished his tea, quickly blended and chugged a protein shake and practically sailed through getting ready for work. No Foggy Nelson calling him to roust him out of bed today. (Though if he were honest with himself, he might have stalled a few minutes in the shower thinking of Claire...)

His shoes hit the pavement outside at ten past seven; at this rate, Matt figured he had enough time to stop at the organic coffee bar on the way and get Karen one of those granola parfaits she liked, Foggy one of whatever pastry had the most chocolate in it, and a pound of that amazing Guatemalan roast (however he might resist Hell's Kitchen's still-impending gentrification, he had to admit more organic coffee was something he could learn to live with)... then still be the first to arrive at the office.

So much for defying expectations: Half an hour later, Matt strolled into Nelson & Murdock to find Karen at her desk, laughing with Detective Mahoney (?! - why was Brett here so early?), seated across from her. There was a sweetly-bouqueted bunch of flowers (some kind of lily, maybe stargazer?) on Karen's desk, from whom it was a mystery. Foggy was in the kitchen, spreading cream cheese (jalapeño) on a freshly toasted bagel (pumpernickel). To top if off... Karen had already made a pot of Folgers.

"I guess I have to get up _really_ early to take the blue ribbon around here," Matt sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter and handing Foggy a small parchment bag containing a chocolate-chocolate chip muffin.

"Waaaahey-hey-hey! Dessert!" Foggy grinned. "And I don't know about you, buddy, but I was so proud of us I could barely sleep last night. I couldn't wait to get here, and we have three..."

"Four," Karen helpfully interjected.

"...FOUR consults today! You ready to be a beacon of handsome, charming, heartfelt concern for your fellow man, Matt Murdock?" Foggy elbowed him in the arm and crunched into his bagel.

"I'm ready to be whatever this city needs me to be, Foggy"; Matt turned to hang up his coat, perceiving only the faintest, imperceptable-by-most chortle in the back of his best friend's throat that read as _"Yeah, and don't I know it."_

"Well, they're mostly fairly straightforward civil cases," Karen explained. "Your 9:30 is the gentleman who owns O'Leary's Pub on Tenth Ave., says his son-in-law was closing up last week when he was beaten and robbed of the entire night's register plus what was in the safe. They also threatened to do it again."

"Yeah, Serrano and I questioned him, poor guy," Mahoney added. "Gavin Hennessey. They beat him pretty bad, he was in and out of consciousness for four days before he was lucid enough for us to get much of a description of the suspects. We did make one arrest, though, that's who's going to court. Name of Faye, Tommy Faye."

"Westies," Matt hypothesized, standing next to the detective and cocking his head in his direction. Mahoney sighed heavily and scratched at the back of his head.

"Yeah, looks that way."

Matt swallowed a sip of coffee, his knuckles tight on the mug handle, and clenched his jaw. "This is just the beginning isn't it, Brett?"

"We don't know that," Foggy interjected, sitting down in the other chair opposite Karen and licking cream cheese off his thumb. “For all that we’ve turned up collectively so far, there’s nothing pointing to someone pulling the strings in the neighborhood.”

“Which doesn’t mean that it isn’t happening elsewhere,” Matt replied, pacing slightly. “They could have an out of town backer, or... I mean, if we are going to exhaust all the possibilities...”

“We know what you’re thinking, Matt,” Karen sighed, twirling her pen nervously. “I asked Brett that before you got here.”

“It’s unlikely that it’s Fisk pulling the strings from his cell,” Mahoney stated. “That isn’t to say that the wheels aren’t spinning in that big chrome dome, but... this doesn’t add for his M.O.”

Matt circled all of his friends, coming to stand behind Karen and facing toward the window into the street. Sounds and smells emanated from the cracked window; around the corner, a woman was carrying a bag of oranges and a loaf of rye bread up a front stoop and stopped to fish around in her bag for her keys, which jingled repeatedly (must be a big purse). He caught a trace of cherry bark and almond oil on the woman’s skin, and immediately he crashed into the memory of licking into the hollow of Claire’s throat as they fell back upon her bed.  Right now he sorely needed to be present, but all he wanted to do was escape into Claire’s embrace...

_Not now..._

“Then we keep digging,” Matt answered, tapping his index finger rhythmically on the window frame.  Punctuating the succession of every other heartbeat in the room. _Brett... Foggy... Karen... *tap*..._

“That’s... sort of what I came here to talk to you about so early,” Mahoney said, shifting in his chair. “I got called in to Metro-General a little while ago. The old man who shot the Costello kid... He came out of his coma last night.”

The only heartbeat Matt could focus on was now his own, and it began to pound until the blood rushed through his ears.

“That’s... that’s great, right?!” Foggy said excitedly. “I mean... did he name anybody? Did he confess?”

“He hasn’t said anything yet,” Mahoney continued, “And we don’t know if he will unfortunately. He’s responding to stimuli and his vital signs are surprisingly strong considering his age and the fact that his lungs look like the inside of a chimney stack, according to the ICU attending. But he’s not talking. Doc says it’s unclear at this point if he’s suffered any permanent brain damage in the interim. But he may come around.”

“What about the Niles, the big guy?” Karen asked.

“Still nothing,” Mahoney replied. “His knee’s shattered in two places and he still managed to pick a fight with the Puerto Rican gang bangers up at Rikers. As far as what happened that night, though? He’s not saying shit.”

 _Which supports my theory that someone’s pulling the strings,_ Matt thought to himself. _But why wouldn’t he give up Daredevil? Unless his bosses are expecting a rematch. Or letting the old man give up the devil before he gives up the ghost..._

“Keep us posted, if there’s any change.” Matt turned back around, hands on his hips, and forced a smile. From behind his glasses, he figured they couldn’t see the panic recede in his eyes.

“You bet. Thanks for the coffee, Karen. I think for the time being you all are safe, but as always just keep an eye peeled... I mean, uh... you know... after a fashion."  Matt chuckled and nodded at Mahoney; no offense taken. The detective continued: "And Matt, you came late, but there's some of my mom's famous chicken and dumplings in the fridge. Bess sends her regards; make sure Foggy shares."

"I'm planning to share it! Even if _I paid_ for the cigars that earned that delicious food in trade," Foggy jibed, shaking his head and retreating to his office clutching his muffin.

The door closed behind Mahoney, and Matt slowly circled back around the desk. That strange aura of being stared at came over him.

“Are you okay, Matt?” Karen asked. “You seem tense, and it’s making _me_ tense.”

He paused, with a smirk followed by a shrug.

“You know I hate loose ends, Karen. And dead ends I hate even more.”

She exhaled hard, shuffling papers and standing up. “For the time being, you’ve got plenty to keep you occupied to get your mind off it. I put Phoenix to work this morning.” (Phoenix was the brand of Braille embossing printer they’d splurged on, along with software for Karen’s computer; it cost so much, Foggy joked they ought to name it, like a pet.) “Take these, and there’s more on your desk. It’s that breach of contract decision with a lot of similarities to the one coming in at 12.”

“Precedent, Murdock!” Foggy hollered from the other room. “We need precedent!”

Matt shook his head, striding to the kitchen and back. “Thanks. Here,” he smiled, placing the parfait on Karen’s desk. “It’s got blueberries in it. It’ll make you less tense.”

Karen snorted. “I love blueberries.”

“I know.”

\--------------

Intermittently through their consults, and all the way through lunch, Matt kept dwelling on it.

_Should I just tell Foggy now?_

Keeping his night life from his best friend had nearly driven a wedge between them so wide he was afraid they’d never share the same bond again. He swore to himself he wouldn’t let that happen again, especially as they’d seemingly grown even stronger – and Foggy had been entrusted with absolutely all of his secrets, including Claire. But this... it took him a long time to decide how he himself felt about it. He was concerned with Foggy reacting... well, accusatory. He wouldn’t have meant it to be spiteful, but he was always so damned concerned with the notion of Matt stirring up more trouble than he could handle. Foggy still hadn’t quite grasped how this worked: _There’s no aspect of what I do in the suit that isn’t about stirring up trouble. The best I can do is try and be quicker, and smarter, and to remain ahead of the curve. Sometimes, the best just isn’t enough._

That afternoon, Karen left the office to have coffee with Ned Leeds, the reporter who had taken Ben Urich’s beat over at the Bulletin. (Turned out he was the source of the potently scented flower arrangement; when Matt asked if they intend to discuss “neighborhood crime watch updates,” as they called them, Karen’s pulse quickened and she responded with “I’m late, gotta go.”) As dusk approached, both partners sat apart in their respective offices until Foggy came over with a copy of Kleiner vs. Niedermann and a barrage of questions. Only some of which had to do with breach of contract cases.

“So what do you think the odds are that I can get Elisa to have a drink with me?”

Matt turned his head back toward Foggy’s voice and took off his glasses, squinting. (In all these years, he hadn’t forgotten that squinting equalled “scrutiny.”) “Elisa?”

“Detective Serrano!”

“Yeah, I know her name, Foggy. Think it’s a good idea for your friendship with Brett if you not only keep encouraging his mother’s smoking habit but also start trying to date his partner?”

“I don’t think I see how the two are connected, counsellor. Overruled.”

“I’ll adjust my line of questioning: What does Marci think of this?”

Foggy huffed and seemed to slump back into his seat. “We’re on a _break_.”

“Now that sounds like something you should be asking for advice about,” Matt chuckled. “Reformulate your opening argument, I’m gonna head home and finish reading these, the smell of those flowers is really intense.” He strode into the front hall toward the coat rack; Foggy followed.

“You’re a lot of help,” Foggy moped.

“Mm hmm, I am, I’m Daredevil,” Matt deadpanned. In spite of himself, Foggy chortled.

“And modest!” The two embraced, and Matt felt a twinge of guilt followed by sudden, comforting relief.

“Foggy, I...”

“Yeah?”

“.....Nothing. I promise. I’ll tell you later.” Matt started to decend the stairs.

“You’ll probably forget. Hey, I wonder if Elisa drinks beer or is she like, a whiskey kind of a girl?”

“CALL MARCI.”

\--------------------

_Soon, I’ll tell him soon._

_Fuck, I should have told him today._

Matt had spent three solid hours reading case files when he wasn’t second-guessing what he’d learned, hadn’t learned, and the decisions he’d made earlier. More than anything, he didn’t want a sudden public success to allow him to get soft; on the other hand, he knew he needed to allow himself the space to take stock, to not grind his gears so hard he burned out. He’d been throwing literal and figurative punches without a rest for some time; he’d earned some time to meditate, to reflect.

To feel.

He knew what he was going to do all along, before he drank a glass of water, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed. If she didn’t answer, he’d just leave a message.

“Man, you are _literally_ worse than a four year old the day before their birthday.” Claire’s voice was warm. Not exasperated. Just teasing. Matt’s entire body relaxed.

“I just wanted to hear you. I wanted to say goodnight.”

“Mm. Lucky you, getting into your soft warm bed. I just finished stitching a guy’s nostril back onto his face.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” Matt said. “How’d he manage that?”

“He tried to mug a woman. Got cold-cocked good and hard.”

Matt grinned, the kind he usually didn't pull unless there was someone there to be dazzled by it. “That wasn’t me.”

Claire outright laughed. “Thanks for clarifying, but yes, I know. It was her husband and his Cornell Medical class ring. Anyway, the cops just took him away. Otherwise it’s a slow night, I’m on my lunch break.”

“So my timing’s getting better.”

“Definite improvement,” she purred. “Also, I was just giving you crap earlier. I can’t wait to see you.”

Matt’s stomach flipped, and he licked his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He had a bold idea. She really might resist. But he needed this, especially after today.

“Where are you going for lunch?”

“What, for midnight munchies? I usually don’t go anywhere, I pack a lunch,” Claire answered. “People get mugged at this hour, I figured you’d be aware of that. And most places are closed.”

“And you don’t have a sharp class ring.”

“There’s that, too.”

“Hmm,” Matt sat up and scooted closer to the edge of the bed. Just in case. “Can you get up to the roof?”

“Of the _hospital?”_ Claire asked. Skeptical.

“Claire... I’m not going push my luck here. Thursday's still on, your terms, I just... I found out some things today. Old Man Neeley woke up.”

Silence on the other end of the line. “Did he tell...”

“No,” Matt blurted. “But he might eventually. And there’s more shakedowns happening, and...” He rubbed against the grain of his stubble, closing his eyes. Going for broke.

“Claire... Can I come over and kiss you goodnight?”

Silence again.

“Meet me up there in 15 minutes.”

Matt had never moved so fast in his pajama bottoms; they were surprisingly stretch-resistant. He threw on the first t-shirt he grabbed and his gym shoes and bolted up his stairwell and out into the moonlight.

By the time he dove and rolled onto the hospital roof (“Meet me on the north side,” she’d quickly instructed, “South side has the helipad, too chancey”), Claire’s pulse was throbbing like a quick-time metronome. He zeroed in on the rhythm, on her heat, and reached out for her neck. Stroking it with his fingertips, she leaned into his touch.

“That was impressive,” she whispered. Stepping closer, closing the space between them. Both of his hands upon her jawline now, thumbs feathering her cheekbones; Claire’s hands came up to his wrists, caressing slowly... attentively down to his elbows, and back up across the swell of his biceps. At that point, she was really more fondling than caressing.

“Nice to know I can still impress you.” He exhaled deeply as her palms continued to roam, over his t-shirt, across shoulders and pecs. Matt let one hand drop down, feeling Claire’s sweater: cable-knit, cardigan, so soft. She leaned into him, nuzzling at his throat as he slipped one hand inside her sweater, ghosting over her scrubs, along her breast and ribcage before settling in the small of her back. Drawing her flush against him.

“You never stopped.” Claire reached up and rummaged in the hair at the back of his head, pulling him into a slow, deep, passionate kiss. She rubbed his neck, and curled the tip of her tongue against the bow of his upper lip; Matt stroked her face again, and her throat, and the movement under her chin as they kissed, and kissed, and swayed gently together. Matt shivered, and not because it was midnight and he was in just his PJs. He dipped Claire’s head back and kissed her even harder, savoring every movement. She moaned into his mouth, reaching down and cupping his ass. They kissed as though she didn’t have to be back at her post in five minutes. As though there were no one else in the city but the two of them.

At last, Claire broke away with a loud smack, punctuating it with tiny kisses at the corners of Matt’s mouth, and the tip of his nose. He sighed, and drew her into a tight embrace. They held each other so tight, for several more moments.

“Thursday,” Matt whispered against her earlobe, with a gentle nip. Claire murmured against his chest: “MmmmmyesThursday.”

One more gamble...

 _“Te amo,”_ he breathed. Claire’s grip on his waist tightened.

_“Tambien, amor.”_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long! Life gets in the way of fandom shenanigans sometimes. Hopefully it was worth the wait; I wanted to cover a lot of ground from Claire's point of view, it took a little while for me to work out the details.  
> It's also a somewhat lengthy chapter, but there's still more on the way actually. Next time it gets... physical. ;)
> 
> NOTE: I did the hover-over thing for the Spanish dialogue again; as always, if/when my grammar is sketchy, let me know and I'll fix it! ;)

_Tuesday..._

The mental and physical stutter that was going from the night shift, home for what amounted to a three-hour nap, then getting up and transitioning back to days to finish out the week was not something you got used to so much as tolerated. Claire had done it before plenty of times, though. It wasn’t going to wreck her, she might just be a little humorless that day.

And then it turned out to be almost as slow a day as the previous night had been. Though not without highlights: A barroom brawl’s worth of suturing (before happy hour!); an elderly Polish man presenting with an arrythmia which turned out to be a false alarm; and most notably, little Claire.

Claire (the smaller one) was seven. She had straw-colored pigtails, sad grey eyes and smudges of dirt on her face and arms. Her eyes were rimmed red from crying and she had a pronounced pout on first glance, which softened noticeably when Claire (the bigger one) exclaimed “Claire?! Are you serious? That’s my name!”

Little Claire had a very badly skinned knee just under the hemline of her shorts, which required a couple of stitches and a tetanus booster shot, to be on the safe side; she was tough as nails for both, which begged the question of why she was visibly upset. The woman who brought her in, it turned out, was an afterschool counselor; she’d broken up a fight between little Claire and an eight-year-old boy who was apparently bullying Eugene Tsang. (“He’s my boyfriend,” little Claire declared. “He’s the smartest boy in our class.” Good taste, Claire thought to herself.) Little Claire had apparently launched a high-kick at the larger boy’s chest, knocking him over; he’d have a bruise on his chest to go with his ego, but little Claire landed knee-first on the gravel below.

“That’s what the Daredevil would do,” Little Claire said. “I read about him in the newspaper that was on the table at my grandma’s house, but my mommy got mad and said I shouldn’t read trash in a rag like the Bulletin.”

Claire tried to focus on her frustration at this kid attempting to mimic Matt’s nighttime activities, but for the moment she halfheartedly stifled a chuckle at the girl’s effortless memory of her mother’s admonishment. Sharp kid.

“You know, Claire,” she sighed, dabbing the last bit of iodine on the girl’s knee before throwing the swab away, reaching for a gauze dressing. “The man in the newspapers does very dangerous things. He takes some very serious risks, with his life and the lives of others... and that’s not something you should try to imitate. Okay?”

The girl bit her lip, but nodded all the same. As Claire loosely fitted two strips of tape above and below the gauze, her tiny charge asked one more question.

“But he does it to help people, right?” Little Claire’s eyes were filled with curiosity. “He wants to help good people.”

Claire breathed, started to speak and for the first time in a long time, truly felt flummoxed. It wouldn’t be right for her to say anything that might be vaguely mistaken for encouragement, especially not with this kid’s caregiver standing next to her. But if anyone... _anyone_ were in a position to know Daredevil’s true intentions...

“Her mom should clean and change the dressing twice a day, and no soaking in the tub or swimming for at least a week.” Claire smiled and shook the hand of a tiny, foolish and brave little girl as she moved onto her next charge.

\------------------------

_Wednesday..._

Well if the slow day before was a pleasant surprise, the nightmarish hump day that followed it made up for it in spades. And the last thing Claire wanted to do after her gruelling mid-week shift was shlep up to Harlem on the A-train, but working in a hospital has its perks when it comes to acquiring things like medical supplies and painkillers. Which when you have a stubborn mother with arthritic hands who insists on remaining active, means occasionally making important deliveries.

The first thing Soledad Temple said when she opened the door of her home, tilting her head down and peering at her daughter over the rim of the glasses that were typically perched on the end of her nose, was “You look tired _, mi hija._ _Venga, tiene un poco de café, es fresco.”_

 _“Ay, yo no quiero café_, Moms.” Claire rubbed her mother’s shoulders and followed her through the darkened hall, which always smelled like rose-scented candles, into her mother’s bright, warm kitchen taking out two bottles and placing them on the yellow tile countertop next to the multivitamin, glucosamine and epically Costco-sized bottle of Vitamin C tablets. (Sometimes she wondered why her mother seemed to think she’d contract scurvy one day.) “ _Tengo que dormir esta noche._ ”

“Señora Anaya was here for four hours today, she drank two pots of coffee and told me all about her Rogelio, _y lo miserable que es que no va a casarse con esa chica cubana cuya familia es propietaria de la panadería en Harlem español_.”

Claire shook her head, rubbing her eyes and leaning back against the counter as her mother sipped black coffee daintily from her “nice” porcelain. “Rogelio Anaya is gay.”

“ _I know that_ , and _you_ know that, but...” Soledad gestured broadly and then shook her head, tapping her long nails on the tile. “It’s not my place to interfere.”

“No, no it’s not your place.” Claire did help herself to a glass of water, and pulled out a fork to take a few bites from the half-eaten quesadilla cake on a plate next to the coffee pot. Señora Anaya must have brought that over; well, at least she made an offering. She twirled the fork in her hand as she chewed. Thinking about little Claire. “Sometimes it is hard to keep something to yourself, though.”

“Keeping things to yourself is something I’m proud to say I raised you to be terrible at,” Soledad said, side-eying her daughter with a sly grin as she walked into the dining area; Claire chuckled and poured some more water as her mother returned with two small plates bearing a fork each and a smattering of crumbs.

“So, I want you to try the splint that is in the bag there, it’ll really help with your trigger finger,” Claire said, nodding toward the white bag that had previously contained painkillers as well. Soledad peered inside, eyebrow raised, as her daughter continued: “...And I’m really sorry about this, I know it’s short notice but I’m going to have to skip the bridge game tomorrow. Something came up.” Her mother had begun hosting a bridge game with the ladies from her church. So far she'd missed four out of five invites.

The bag landed on the counter with a dull thud, and Soledad folded her arms. “ _No me digas esto_ , _Claire. Sólo ha venido a jugar una vez, y siempre, ya que de excusas ...”_

“ _Moms, fue divertido, tengo juego divertido con ustedes, pero ... ”_

_“Estás viendo a un hombre, ¿no?”_

Claire chugged the remaining half-glass of water and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. _“¿Qué pasa si yo fuera?_ ”

Soledad narrowed her eyes, but the corners of her mouth turned up pleasantly. She turned to the sink, washed and rinsed the two plates she’d brought in quickly and, drying her hands on a dishtowl, peered over those glasses again.

“It’s not the ambulance driver you went out with before, is it?” Claire wasn’t about to point out how “ambulance driver” was a poor way of describing an EMT.

“No, it’s not Travis.”

Soledad stepped closer to her daughter, turned her head to one side as though she were studying her face carefully. Claire tried desperately not to roll her eyes like a sixteen-year-old.

“ _Es el abogado muy guapo, ¿no?”_

A long pause as Claire pursed her lips and stared her mother down.

“Look, I...”

“ _Aaaaah-haaa_.” Claire folded her arms as her mother put both hands on the table, stared down, then looked back at her. “ _Mira, Claire, no me gusta cuando no hablas conmigo. Pero veo lo que hay en sus ojos cuando usted está pensando en ese hombre.”_

Claire’s face softened; there was no fooling her Moms sometimes.

_“Es complicado,”_ she replied. 

“Yeesss, I can tell that,” Soledad bellowed. There was also no getting around her sarcasm, sometimes. She poured the rest of the coffee from her Farberware percolator into her cup and unplugged the pot. “I also raised you to take care of yourself, so I’m not going to worry about complications. If you tell me everything’s fine...”

“Everything’s fine, Moms.” Claire answered. Perhaps a little too quickly. Her mother kept a watchful eye on her still, as she came closer, picked up the discarded fork and took a small bite of cake, then a larger one.

_“Tome una foto para mí, al menos. Quiero ver su hermoso rostro que hace que sus ojos vidriosos por el estilo.” _

_\-------------------_

Thursday morning, before she showered Claire let herself sleep in about an hour. Okay, 45 minutes; there were quite a few things that needed seeing to. Like, taking an extra long walk to the Dean & Deluca that was practically in the Theater District to buy herself an exhorbitantly priced macchiato, then hitting up the salon to treat herself to a mani-pedi. (All the spa treatments, no polish; no one would be admiring what _color_ her toes were tonight.) The day was young but she was decidedly in “treat yo self” mode.

There was still plenty of time to do what she’d originally planned to spend this day off doing: Studying for the NCLEX-RN and taking her first practice exam. So she came back to her apartment, sat down at the table armed with a large bottle of Smart Water and two KIND bars, and prepared to dig into her nursing studies.

Wait, though.... I mean, she really should check and see...

“Hi, it’s me,” Claire sighed, a little disheartened that the automated voicemail that chirped out the number on Matt’s burner phone picked up instead of him. “Just wanted to make sure that 7:30 still worked for you. I hope so. I’ll... I’ll see you soon.”

Claire studied, and studied, and the sun began to shift in the sky until it trickled through her kitchen window. It was 4:18, and she hadn’t heard anything. She got up, looked in her fridge and wished she kept junk food in the house, then settled on a banana.

She’d gotten on a solid memorization groove, absorbing information like a sponge, and felt confident enough to hunker down and begin the test when her phone rang and she startled.

"Even your callback skills are ninja-ish," she snarked. "You scared the crap out of me."

“I'm.... sorry? I mean my hearing's not _that_ good, I don't know what you're up to that far away."

"Studying, actually."

"Hot."

Claire snorted. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm _completely_ serious. Yes, 7:30 is great. You can come earlier, if you want. I just got back from the gym. I’m not busy.”

Oh, he didn’t sound eager at all. Just relaxing at home, after having worked his bod over hitting things for a couple of hours...

“I’m studying for the NCLEX-RN exam, I have to give myself a practice test.”

“Well that’s important. I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Later, Mike.”

An hour and ten minutes later, Claire tallied up her score and then did a triumphant little strut around her table in her yoga pants. Picked up the phone, called back... he didn't answer. Again.

“You still there? What if I could be there by 6:30, would that be terrible?”

She hung up, huffed. A little exasperated, she went ahead and got ready. Not too much – she’d decided earlier that day that as they’d agreed not to formalize this get-together too much and it was mild out, she’d go in fairly casual. A new-ish pair of jeans, a billowy crepe top over a black tank and a pair of t-strap sandals. Not even much makeup, she’d just put on a little lipgloss before she left. Laid back, comfortable, taking full advantage of the fact that she'd be seeing the one guy she didn't have to worry about dressing up for. She was pulling her hair into a ponytail when her phone rang again. 

“No, not at all,” he had answered. “I mean, not terrible. Perfect. Sorry, I was getting ready.”

“So you’re ready now?”

“Ready for you.”

 _Smooth_. “I’ll leave in a little bit.”

“Wait, how’d you do on the test?”

“I got a 91.”

“HOT.”

"Stop saying that! I'll be there soon..."

"Hurry, and it is. Hot."

"BYE FELICIA."

\-------------------

He was so beautiful.... so, _so beautiful_ , and beaming, with the neatly wavy hair and the dimples and... what an asshole. Such nice teeth.

“I... thought we agreed this wasn’t a _date-type-date_.” Claire’s shoulders slumped enough for her purse to slip off her shoulder a little; she hoisted it back up as she stared at Matt Murdock, in a soft burgundy sweater over a pale checked shirt, dark grey dress slacks that hugged his hips, and some very nice leather loafers that read as “I know I’m not formal, but I look _goooood_.” His brow furrowed, and he looked a little crestfallen, reaching up and pawing at his throat.

“Do you mean it’s too much?” he asked. “I....didn’t wear a tie, I thought a tie is _clearly_ too much...”

Claire walked past him into the hall, shaking her head and hanging her purse on the coat rack; she thought the better of it suddenly, and retrieved her phone. “I just dressed down is all, and here you come looking like Land’s End chic...” She took him by the hand and led him over to the nearest lamp (He’s got much better lighting now, she thought to herself...) “Stand there.”

“What am I doing?” Matt laughed, puzzled.

“Just look toward my voice and smile,” Claire answered, holding up her phone and framing him.

“Are you taking my picture?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, snapping four or five shots. “My moms figured out I was seeing _el abogado guapo_ again and she made me promise to take her a picture this time. I can’t go back empty handed.”

Matt smirked, “Well, okay then. I guess that requires immediate action.”

Claire slipped her phone back into her pocket, reaching forward and slipping one hand up underneath his sweater, over the shirt. She felt his abs flex as she backed him against the wall leading into the kitchen.

“No, you look fine as hell and I wanted to capture the moment before I _ruffle you up_.” She ran her fingers up the back of his head, into his hair, and pulled him into a slow, deep kiss. Matt reached up, caressing with one hand across her forehead where her hair was pulled back, down over her face; his other hand flattened between her shoulder blades and pressed her tight against his body. Once the kiss broke, Claire nuzzled his neck until Matt sighed.

“Hi,” she whispered against his jawline.

“Hi, Claire,” Matt grinned. His fingers toyed with the gathered crepe, sewn together at the back of her blouse, then the hem, sinking further down and fondling the seams on the back pocket of her jeans. Enjoying the tactile sensations, she realized; maybe she should have worn older jeans that were softer. He cupped her ass, curling his fingers into her curves before following the seams on the denim back up to her waistline. His middle fingertip grazed the bare skin of her hip. Warm... his flesh slightly cooler. She shivered.

“What you’re wearing is perfect, by the way.”

“Hmmm,” she sized him up. The sass. Claire thumbed at the raspy little patch of stubble under Matt’s lower lip, melting just a bit when he kissed her knuckle softly.

“Can I get you a drink?” He walked over toward the counter, still holding her hand, and Claire let herself take in the surroundings. Not only was the lighting better, but there was a thick, dark blue drape over one of the huge windows; it cut down on the glare from the LED billboard outside considerably. A Chet Baker album was spinning on a turntable in the corner; off in the big, open space next to the stairwell, there was an exercise mat and a set of dumbells on the floor. There were also several plants in the room – an umbrella plant, two pothos on the cabinet, a ficus in the corner.

“I didn’t realize you had such a green thumb... oh, now what’s _this_ tomfoolery?” Claire’s hands hit her waist as she stared wide-eyed at a snapshot-ready spread on the table of a few booze bottles, garnishes, and nibbles. Perfect little glass bowls full of olives, nuts, little cornichons. A plate of sliced melon with slivers of prosciutto on it. Little forks. Cloth napkins. She almost got her phone out again. Chet began crooning “Time After Time.” Matt just shrugged, opening a bottle of Hendricks’ gin.

“Hey, you told me not to plan anything out and I didn’t.” Claire watched, more than a little fascinated, as Matt stood at the counter and poured out measures of gin and vermouth into a jigger, never overpouring, then into a shaker full of ice as he spoke. “Not really. I was just walking back from the gym and thinking, you know I usually drink scotch but... I haven’t had a really good Gibson in a long time.” Stirring the shaker with one of those long cocktail spoons, he strained it off into martini glasses, skewered a couple of cocktail onions with those long fancy-ass picks made out of twisted bamboo, and handed her a drink. Claire took it, gobsmacked. Matt’s head tilted as her silence lingered.

“If... you’d prefer, I have red wine too. It’s a malbec, from Argentina it’s supposed to be...”

“This is _great_....Matt.” Claire gingerly clinked her glass with his, stepped toward the table and took the entire plate of prosciutto and melon, plus some napkins and the forks. I mean, if a man was going to _entertain_ her...

“Bring the nuts,” she called after him, on her way toward the sofa.

\---------------------

They talked, and talked and talked into their second round of Gibsons; after the second one, she even ate the onion, which was a little briny for her taste but not bad. She told him about the parts of her studies she felt came easy, and those that were still presenting challenges; he told her about Nelson & Murdock’s new clients that had been keeping them on their toes this week. Oh, and Karen had given him the umbrella plant; he bought the others after he realized having them around oxygenated the air so noticably to him.

“Really, you never did the math on that one before?” Claire had slipped off her sandals, and was nudging his thigh with her bare foot; Matt caressed her leg, almost up the knee. It was flirty, and it was satisfying, but it was also... relaxed. A part of Claire felt she should be unnerved by how at ease she felt with him lately, but this was far too nice to wring her hands over.

“I know, it seems obvious.” Matt rubbed the back of his head, his head leaning back on the sofa cushion, looking aimlessly up toward the rafters. “I guess that gets filed under me not thinking about taking care of myself once in a while.”

“Or _ever_.” Claire eyeballed a smallish, drawn scar at the base of his neck; she remembered stitching that up not long before that night happened. When he came to her, so heartbroken and alone. She thought about kissing it, lulled into the notion of finding every mark on his body and kissing each one in turn, but she didn’t; right now, it was the _wanting_ that was so delicious. That she could technically have him any time she wanted, but they had leisure right now. They had _time_... and no urgency or dread or danger hovering over them like a black cloud.

“Hey, not true,” he sniffed, crossing his legs up on the table. “Bought myself these shoes.”

“They’re tres swank,” Claire chortled.

“Thanks.”

“I want to know what’s up with the world’s most minimal home gym, though,” she asked him, sidling closer on the sofa mostly so she could softly nudge his head in right direction and he’d know what she was referring to. “I thought you worked out in that old smelly joint your dad used to train in.”

“Awww, that’s just unfair,” Matt sat up and drew Claire’s legs over his own, sorta-side-saddle on his lap. He rubbed her right knee absent-mindedly. “How do you know it’s smelly?”

“Well, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then.” They both laughed, low giggles that rumbled through one another’s bodies as they sat propped against one another. Claire wanted to tell him about the little girl whom she’d treated at work:  Little Claire without fear. In a sense she felt like this kind of tender, unguarded moment was the right time and place to share that with him, but... it also could ruin the moment entirely. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps they weren’t as uncomplicatedly easeful with one another as she thought.

“I do train at Fogwell’s, but sometimes... I can’t sleep, if my mind is _racing_ , I mean when it’s really late and I just get the urge to...” Matt’s voice trailed off; she realized he just stopped himself short because _she knew_ the end of that sentence.

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Matt exhaled deeply, gesturing off to his left with one finger extended. “Anyway, there’s a... punching bag in the cabinet over there, it hangs on a chain off that rafter...”

Claire sat up, ate a cashew, washed it down with the faintest trace of liquid left in her glass and stood to her feet. She didn’t mean to bring the mood down, so... go for broke. “Show me some moves.”

He just stared at her in disbelief for a few seconds, then pulled a “wait, she’s _serious_ ” face – “What... do you want me to _show_ you?”

Silly boy, she wasn’t asking for ninja lessons. “Obviously nothing complicated, I mean we did both have two drinks. Remember, I’m the medical professional here...” Claire did want to keep this flirty, though, so she doffed her top and dropped it on his lap as she walked over to the mat in just her tank and jeans.

“Whoa, heh heh...” Matt stood up, casually draping her blouse over one shoulder as Claire rocked back and forth on her heels on the mat. “When you say we’ll play it by ear, you mean it.”

“ _Andalé,_ _güero_ ,” Claire said, giving him the wiggly-beckoning-fingers gesture that she knew damn well he couldn’t see, but she didn’t care. “I know you could show me a couple of things that I could use to put the fear of God into the next thug punk that tries to get handsy with me on the subway.”

Matt noticably winced at the thought of anyone taking advantage of her, and Claire appreciated his chivalry. Seriously, though, Murdock...

“Just... give me a second.” He walked away from her, toward his bedroom.

“Ooh, got something you’ve been hiding from me? Like a bo stick or something?” Claire was genuinely excited now, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You know, Donatello was always my favorite Ninja Turtle...” She stopped cracking wise, though, when Matt momentarily re-emerged from his bedroom... sweater-less, his shirt open down to the last button showing off his toned chest. _Dios mio..._

“If you’re doing this just to get me to dress down, it worked.” Shucking the shirt, he began sliding the door closed; like a moth to a flame, Claire felt herself drawn toward him but she stopped short as Matt poked his head out of the remaining cracked space.

“No peeking!” he snarled, and slammed the door shut.


End file.
